Dance on my Heart
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Clarice pays a visit to find some closure in her life and reflects on her upcmonig birthday. I was in a slightly mooshy mood, so... Reviews are considered loverly.


__

Then a kindly gentleman asked a fair young maid a question; 'What must I do to win your hand and gain your kind affection? I can only promise to love you and be by you side through all of my life, I will be your faithful companion. Come, take my hand, say you'll be my wife.'

'Sir,' she replied, 'You are my selection, and you'll receive my love and affection. For you dance on my heart, and you sing to my soul.'

-'Dance on my Heart' 

Dance on my Heart

The winds rushed past her as she stood solemn and lonely in the cemetery that was a scar on the lion-colored hide of central Texas. The old headstone at her feet was sun baked and the rough edges were beginning to smooth in the constant onslaught of wind and sand and the elements. There was still enough of a sheen from the polished surface that it had winked at her in the sun as she had come to stand before the grave. There was nothing there now, underneath the slightly sunken mound of dirt. A few weeds clustered in the meager shad offered by the stone and she reached down to pluck them away. It might have been of some comfort to know even something of him rested beneath the sandy soils, but there's nothing, not even the remains of the rotted pressboard coffin that once held him. 

It was difficult to remember, later she had known it had been under the influence of a cocktail of psycho-tropic drugs that she had finally made her peace. Now she was here for closure.

Clarice M. Starling, former special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, stood before her father's grave in the Battle Creek cemetery. He had come from Texas, and it had been his wish to be buried here with his kin. Nearly two thousand miles away from his wife. Clarice could remember coming here for the first time, meeting her grandfather and grandmother and seeing the bleak surroundings of her father's childhood. She had little wonder then at why he had left this place and headed east. Her grandparents lay beside her father's disinterred grave and she wondered if they had been offended by the events that had transpired years later after their only son's death. 

Sighing, Clarice dipped her head in the unrelenting Texas sun and looked at her father's headstone, trying to bring back memories of him. Happy ones. She could see him in the kitchen, carving the orange with the Barlow knife broken square at the tip. It was the only memory that had stayed bright after her nights in the lake house with Dr. Lecter. No more memories of him lying in the hospital bed, slowly dying. No more memories of her mother standing at the sink in their old clapboard home washing the blood from her father's hat. No more memories of the mayor coming into the hospital room and telling her mother to turn over the watchman's clock and his badge. Only the pleasant memory of sunlight and oranges and the smile on his face as he handed her a section of the fresh orange. She fished in her pocket and pulled out the small white box. 

Removing the lid, Clarice revealed a bit of cotton wadding, which was removed and let blown away by the wind. There, nestled in the remaining cotton, was her father's Barlow knife. With a practiced hand she flicked it open, the blade still sharp and bright in the sun. The tip was still the same, broken off square to the blade and she could almost smell the oranges. It was the last item she had of him, and she looked at it for a long time before closing it again. The handle was brown and worn with age and less than care. She used the remaining cotton to wipe at it, making sure it was clean, before she knelt by the headstone.

She lay the knife in the thin shadow at the base of the headstone, feeling the small area of cool granite. She reached up a little ways and traced the etched surface of her father's name, and stared at it. Where would she be today had her father not died? Would she still have had the ambition to go to college, to become a FBI agent, to prove herself worthy in the eyes of the world? There was no way to know. She couldn't change the past.

She rose, ignoring the wind that whipped hair into her face, and continued to look down on her father's grave. Time stopped for her for a little bit, and she found her closure. She was comfortable with the fact that he was gone. She no longer had to fight to prove that she was better than trailer camp tornado bait white trash. And that her parents had been better than that too. She had come today and found that she was still comfortable with the peace she had found four years back. And she was comfortable with her life since then.

As silently as she had come, Starling left the graveyard. Her car sat on the edge of the dirt road that led off the county road to this desolate place. She nodded once at a worker who was wheeling a barrow full of dead and dried flowers and meager grass clippings. Floating above his load, tied to the handle of the wheelbarrow, was a brightly colored Mylar balloon proclaiming 'Happy Birthday.' Birthday, yes. In three days she would be thirty seven. She had survived four years longer than Christ. It was an occasion worth celebrating, and she was certain someone else would agree with her.

*****

The drive back to Dallas was long and boring. She called him no less than four times on the cell phone. The first time was for legitimate reasons, to let him know she had set about her return, the other three calls were for nothing more than whimsy. It was a thrill to hear his voice over the ear bud as she flew along Interstate 35. There was room in her life now for the simpler pleasures, and she indulged in them whenever possible. His voice certainly fell into that category.

She made good time returning to Highland Park, and she finally slowed her rush as she turned onto their street. Many of the houses glittered in the night with Christmas decorations, their own included. She turned into the wide driveway and thumbed the garage door opener. The Jaguar was gently guided into the garage and shut off. She emerged and felt glad to be out of the car. It had been a long trip, and one she would never make again. Closing the garage door she stepped up the step and entered the house through the laundry room. The house was cool and quiet, and the gentle strains of violin came from the den. She followed the music, shedding her purse and shoes along the way. She found him there, relaxed in a chair and nodding in time with the music. She slipped up behind him and leaned over the back of the chair, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek. He took one of her hands in his and kissed it gently as she came around to sit in the chair next to him. 

"How as your trip?" He looked at her in the low lamplight, watching the highlights on her high cheekbones, and the shadows below them. Deep blue eyes glittered as she turned to face him as she settled herself with her legs drawn up beneath her. As much as he hates to admit it, Chilton was right all those years ago in the asylum. She was a winter sunset kind of girl; remote and glorious. She had become less remote, but she was still, and would most certainly remain, beautiful.

"It went well."

"And?"

She sighed, looked away for a moment, then back at him. "I made my peace with him, and I'm comfortable with that."

He nodded, and watched her watching him for a long moment. "No urges to return to your previous life? No overwhelming need to prove that you, and your parents, are more than trailer camp tornado bait white trash? Have you earned your father's pride, Clarice?"

Her gaze didn't waver, and he could see that the warrior remained strong within her. "No, Hannibal." she replied, without a hint of regret in her voice. "I've nothing to prove to anyone anymore, and I earned my own pride. I just didn't realize it then."

"But," he interjected for her, and was rewarded with a small smile.

"But, you made me realize it."

He nodded again, and looked away. "So you will stay another day?" he did not look back as he asked the question. 

"Another day, another week, another month, another year. I won't leave you, Hannibal."

Dr. Hannibal Lecter smiled in the low lamplight, pleased with her answer. "If I may ask, Clarice, why?"

She took her time in responding, and he heard her moving in her chair. "You once said it would be quite something to know me in private life, Doctor."

"Indeed."

"And I must admit it is quite something to know you." she was coming to stand in front of him now. "And there's more than that."

"Really? Do tell, Clarice."

She leaned close, and he met her eyes as her breath blew across his cheek. "You danced on my heart, Doctor." 

"And you on mine, Clarice." he replied, smiling as he drew her to him and captured her mouth with his. He drew away and saw the smile on her lips as he did so. "You're becoming poetic in your old age." he teased her. 

"I've had four years in which to learn." she replied, laughing as he pulled her to sit in his lap. She laid her head against his shoulder.

"My Clarice, thirty seven years old." he sighed. He smiled at her and smoothed her platinum hair from her face. It suited the rich blue eyes well. Not as well as the auburn that he had been so accustomed to seeing her in for seven years. He could recall the evening when she released herself from that previous life. Her, caught in the firelight, the cabochon emeralds sparkling with a life of their own as she stood there in the deeply décolleté white gown. he smiled inwardly and bowed his lips to her in his moment of pleasure. 

"You do not regret at all your decision, Clarice?"

"No, Hannibal." she assured him, her tone soft. "Even if I did, I could not go back. Teacups and time, remember?"

"I remember." 

She lay quietly there, head nestled against his shoulder, a hand placed above his heart. He listened to her draw breath, and closed his own eyes. Four long years. He had no qualms, he had no remorse; nor had he any reasons to have either. She had finally found solace in his arms, and the silence of the lambs. And in return, he had found solace in her arms, and relief from the memories of Mischa. It was a blessed silence, and they reveled in it, as they did their life together. In three days they would mark her thrity seventh year on this earth, and their fourth year of freedom together. What a splendid structure they had built.

*****


End file.
